Tag Archives: life

My last attempt had been unsuccessful when Olivia’s friend returned from travelling and needed somewhere to stay. I thought that was it and was about to give up after a month of looking. I had asked to view another property but they had enough people viewing.

Then, out of the blue, the 30-something landlord replied saying no-one had made a definite offer, did I still want to have a look. She had moved to Bristol to live with her boyfriend. They had split up and she was wondering whether to move back to Sheffield or stay in Bristol, where she had a good teaching job.

The terraced house was entered through the back. The kitchen was a bit small but was modern and well equipped. The living room was 15 degrees but that was because they’d only just turned the heating on and it came on twice a day.

There wasn’t a desk in the room but there was a kitchen table downstairs. My compact room looked out onto a brick wall and the petrol station but I’d only go in there to sleep anyway. My future housemate has said she wouldn’t mind me getting some bushes in pots to break it up a bit.

I could picture myself putting on a roast and nipping outside for some fresh rosemary.

There was plenty of storage space which was great because I have so much stuff. Maybe this is a good opportunity to downsize my clutter as well as my living space. It looked out onto a brick wall and a petrol station. Not ideal, but the curtains had black-out linings. I tested them and they created the bat’s cave I require.

The lounge was nice enough, with comfy chairs and a photo block of the Paris skyline. The TV wasn’t as big as ours and was a bit low but that wouldn’t matter, I have my laptop. The landlord’s bedroom had a Paris-themed duvet.

Although it didn’t have a lawn it was near a park and it had a herb garden outside planted by the landlord’s mother, who showed me round. She sighed as she explained that her daughter had never been green-fingered and although she had tried to encourage her to plant some flowers, she was more interested in the house. There was a little patio behind the house.

I could picture myself putting on a roast and nipping outside for some fresh rosemary. The neighbours on one side were boys in their twenties or early thirties. I could see a nice modern kitchen and they had a lovely little back yard with a square of gravel, a wood burner and some garden furniture. They also had a shed that used to be an outdoor toilet. On the other side was a recently redecorated house for sale.
The landlord’s mother explained that the area wasn’t safe and that opportunists scouted the area on a regular basis. She had been a bit worried when her daughter bought the house. So they had fitted the safest door they could find she said, gesturing to the solid, chunky front door. She asked that I kept it locked even when inside. Where I live we have had one attempted break in almost 30 years and the neighbours had a break in at Christmas, but that was their first. The intruder got as far as the back entrance, breaking through a small back door and setting off the alarm. He tripped over a bucket and falling against the washing machine blocking the way, before running off. The eagle-eyed neighbours saw the delinquent running away and the police were round quickly with a forensics team to check for prints. The neighbour at the end got broken into about five times though, once they even prised open a window and got in through that.

Mum also said there was a “drugs house” near where I was living and said that they would try and break in for drug money. Apparently there hasn’t been a problem since the house was bought though.

The housemate was a 28 year old girl with shoulder-length dark brown hair and sparkly blue eyes who worked at a local hospital organising operations. She was friendly and a good listener. She treated me to a cocktail and we had a good chat. We had lots in common – we both came from medical backgrounds – many of her three siblings were doctors, and we liked the same music and TV programme. Neither of us could cook much but we wanted to try. She had managed to expand her repertoire beyond my pasta and sauce.

I will have to give up my glamorous lifestyle in this large airy, light house and adapt. The rent is a third of my salary but it’s a small price to pay for independence.

Not only does blood improve the health of the patient, it also helps the donor – a study from Finland indicated that those aged 43 to 61 had an 88% reduced risk of heart attacks donating six months than those who didn’t. What’s more, it burns hundreds of calories.

As I previously struggled with a needle phobia I was quite anxious about my appointment. I usually saw stars and had clammy hands, so I wasn’t going alone. This is one of the biggest barriers to donation – with 58% of recipients saying this was a factor in my questionnaire.

My friend, who donates for the Interval Study every eight weeks, told me he was going and said I was welcome to join him. I’d had a few in the pub and said alright then, I’d give it a go.

When I called I was surprised to find that there weren’t any appointments available for a month. There had clearly been a surge in goodwill over the festive period. But I may be able to get an appointment on the day. So I rang up, expecting it to be full. I was told to book online.

This was quick and easy. I called again, half hoping it would be full now, so I’d have a valid excuse. No there was one slot free, just at the time my friend was going. Must be fate.

I grudgingly booked. Maybe something else would disqualify me. I couldn’t believe I was going through with it. I saw people lying serenely on the donor chairs but I still wanted to run a mile. Every inch of me wanted to escape but I wasn’t going to let fear win. I just wouldn’t look at the needle, it would be fine, I told myself.

I was assigned a motherly lady in a navy uniform. She was one as well, complaining about her daughter calling throughout her assessment.

Did I have this? Did I have that? Where had I been in Turkey and when and for how long? Not many questions really, she just checked the main ones and asked for a little more detail in some areas. The interview was in a closed room with a window to the donor area. I didn’t really want to see what was going to happen to me next. But maybe that helped me to face it better. She had two small bottles filled with florescent blue and green liquid. She pricked my finger with a needle, but I didn’t see the needle as it was hidden in white plastic tubing. I explained that I was trying to confront a phobia of them so she explained everything she was doing with a smile and a calming manner. She said that if my haemoglobin was at an acceptable level, my blood from the pin prick would sink. I willed it not too. It did, leaving a little red vapour trail through the green liquid.

I had assumed local anaesthetic was given as standard and asked about that.

“Oh no”, she said,

“we only give a local if you ask for it. Would you like to request a local? It’s not problem”

I’d passed the 10 minute chat now. I didn’t want to be the only one not tough enough to do it without anaesthetic. The boys would almost certainly not ask for that. I asked her how much it would hurt “well it depends how sensitive you are” she said. That didn’t really help. I panicked but then I saw my friend Tom in one of the chairs. It was too late to run out. I’d lose face with my boyfriend too, who had come for moral support. There were no appointments but they managed to squeeze him in too.

I deep breathed to prepare myself for the worst and the lady laughed. “Try to remember to do the exercises” she said and handed me a card detailing slowly clenching and unclenching the buttocks and crossing and uncrossing my legs as good ways of ensuring you didn’t faint at the end of the donation.

“It’s not that bad” she said. I wondered how much they’d take and how I’d feel afterwards. Had I drunk enough water? Would I remember to do the exercises? Maybe I should have eaten healthier, maybe my blood wasn’t healthy enough? Would it hurt all the way through? Would I feel the blood being sucked out of my veins by the vampire machine?

My friend had already finished. Well at least it wouldn’t take long.

I got quite comfy in the ergonomic chair and the lady adjusted it until I was lying back comfortably. I looked away as she rubbed my arm briskly and I tensed as I felt a sharp prick and small stab of pain in my arm for a matter of seconds and that was it. I couldn’t feel the blood leaving my body. When I looked back down there was a bit of blue plastic tubing around the needle edge so all I could see was a little bit of the metal going in before a long bit of tubing. There was just the one needle. All the same, I have Raynauds so my hands went cold with the anxiety. I told a kind technician and she held my hand in her warm ones. That made the experience more relaxing.

I was still feeling a little on edge and was grimacing at my friend taking pictures until I saw my boyfriend appear on the chair opposite. Seeing him more nervous than me (and it was his ninth time) made me relax and was quite amusing. He drew breath sharply when it went in and then twitched about, smiling but looking a bit frenetic. Looking at me didn’t seem to calm him down either. He explained later that he was just trying to keep his blood pressure up.

I followed the tubing down to the blood bag. It was underneath a little table. I was fascinated by watching the blood run into the bag. It was so dark, and looked quite thick as it ran slowly and steadily into it. The contraption holding the bag was interesting – it was moving it about up, swinging slightly from left to right, so it looked like it was moving with the blood going into it. There were one or two technicians around and I asked them why it was moving. It was apparently a bag that weighed the donation and cut off when the bag had the required mass. I crossed and uncrossed my legs once and did the buttock exercise once. After about 15 minutes the machine beeped we were done. My boyfriend was done just before me – apparently guys give blood faster due to their physical structure.

After it they put a plaster on and then a small cotton wad for pressure and some medical tape. Two days later my boyfriend went for a 10k run (they recommend rest for 48 hours) and said although he went a little slower it was fine. They brought me upright gradually and asked me how I was. I felt a bit light-headed so I told them. They immediately put the chair back so I was lying with my feet in the air. I was kept like this for about five minutes until they lowered me and asked me if I was OK repeatedly until I was allowed to sit at the treat table (all the biscuits, chocolate and orange juice you want).

I was so triumphant I said “I wanna do platelet donation!“. There is even greater need for platelet donors as these only have a shelf life of seven days and like blood donors, there are not enough. In 2012 they made up a mere 0.03% of the English population. But the technician looked at my veins and said sympathetically “no…I think you should stick to whole donations love”.

I didn’t suffer any bruising as I avoided using my donor arm for a day or so and kept the pressure wad on for a full day. All I could see was a milimetre red dot. I had joined the 12% of donors who were doing it for the first time.

I don’t intend to stop going, although sadly statistics indicate that of those who have donated, 72% haven’t done so for two years or more. Today I went in to find out what blood type I was. You can find out after two days and it appears online. I wanted to find out my haemoglobin level was as well, but apparently they don’t take statistics for that. I had to present photo ID and then I was told I was O positive. This was a bit of a disappointment to me as O positive is the most common blood type (37% of us are this) and I could see from the National Blood Service website stats that their stocks of that were plentiful. It was the rare types they really needed, AB and suchlike. They told me O negative was really useful, as anyone (except someone who is O positive) can receive O negative blood. But the plus side of being O positive is that anyone who is O positive or even just “Rhesus positive” can receive my blood, and that’s a massive 83% of people. I got a little key-ring with it on which will surely help if I have an accident.

Of course, some people will not be eligible to give blood but if you can I think you should. Around 1 in 3 of us will need it in our lifetime. As my medic student sister said “we all expect to receive blood if we needed it, and I think if we expect it we should give it as well.”

I come from a background centred around achievement. It’s a matter of family pride and the most common question people ask is “what do you do [for a living]?”

We’re judged on the job we have and stereotypes surrounding it, the jobs our children do, our homes, our cars and the clothes we wear. We’re all expected to have ambition, a drive to succeed.

But what if our dream turns out to be a misguided fantasy? What if we lose our drive and/or just want to enjoy ourselves after work? Is that really so wrong?

I dreamed of being a journalist from a young age. I desperately wanted to join the fast-paced exciting world of newspaper journalism. Or at least I thought I did. But when I did extensive work experience I realised that the glamourous images in my head were vastly different from the nitty gritty reality, as I saw that actually, print journalists were low-paid, stressed out and had dubious morals.

I have an administration job and have just applied for one with a company rather than an agency, offering just £15 000 a year. Is that even enough to live on? I don’t think I can save for a house or drive a car on that. Unless you want to go into management, administration does not offer much in terms of salary or progression.

What if our goals do not fit into the vision that our family/friends/society has for us? What if we just want a happy life? I am expected to be a librarian, a teacher or an administrator. Mum says “just write a bestseller”, “be the next J.K Rowling”. If only it was that easy.

When I declared that I wanted to be a nurse, all hell broke loose. My family told me they were stressed-out, low paid and bitchy. My nursing friends told me this was indeed true, but that little things like making a difference made it rewarding. All my friends told me to go for it and that I would make a great nurse. So I did, but sadly was unsuccessful. And as another of my dreams falls by the wayside, I’m taking stock and wondering what to do with my life.

Sure, if I moved to London I perhaps would have got somewhere. There are many large creative companies there offering positions with good experience and progression. But I strongly dislike London. It’s dirty, smelly and stressful. I feel claustrophobic with all the people pushing, shoving and coughing in my face. I feel the soot in the Underground sticking to me, and when I wash my face in the evening the water turns grey. I dislike the cold way people brush right past me, noses in the air, wrapped up in something I could never afford. On that note (literally), I dislike the sky-high prices blowing holes in your wallet.

This morning I did an analytic meditation on attachment. Our fancy phone, our partner, our lifestyle and many other objects, people and ideas can be sources.

I’ve often had disappointment in love and today I realised why. Previously I have projected desired good qualities onto a boyfriend and then expected him to behave in a way that I would. Just because I am chatty and physically affectionate I sometimes expect a partner to be as well. We often expect a boyfriend, girlfriend, fiance, husband to be like us. For example we might plan a big surprise party when they prefer the company of a few good friends. We need to appreciate differences in personality of those we are close to. It’s also important to recognise the difference between love and attachment, because often they feel like the same thing.

Attachment makes us behave in a way which often runs contrary to who we really are and destroys our peace of mind. We might be clingy or bombard someone with texts, thinking that the more we contact them, the more likely they are to answer. Of course the opposite is true. We develop unrealistic expectations of those we love, expecting them to always be there and make us happy. Our mood can go up and down depending on what’s happening in our relationships. We might feel hurt by a partner’s behaviour when in fact we just need to understand. It always helps to try and see things from their perspective.

Perhaps we get into dysfunctional relationships because we don’t want to be alone, because we’re in love with the idea of love or because we try to fool ourselves that we are compatible when we are not.

We may plan our days around our partners. But really we should get on with our own lives, our own independent journey. If they want to join us then that’s great but if they don’t, don’t lose sight of who you are and what you want to achieve. Only you can shape your future.

This afternoon I went swimming with a friend. I hadn’t seen her for ages and was really looking forward to it. We had a good gossip and remarked at how busy the pool was that session. There were people selfishly ploughing up and down and almost into us.

I left the pool to get my goggles from my locker. When I got back I saw to my horror that my friend was struggling to keep afloat in the deep end.

The key rule being “kindly refrain from lane rage”. We saw a lot of that today!

There were about 15 people in the pool and they were all at the sides just gawping at her. It was awful. I was about to leap in myself, what were the lifeguards doing? I looked to my left and they were also standing there staring. It was like someone had paused a film. I announced “my friend needs help” and suddenly the play button was pressed again and the lifeguards leapt into action. I jumped into the pool too and hugged my friend.

She was really embarrassed and said she “felt stupid” for “making a scene”. But I said the onlookers should be the ones feeling embarrassed for just looking on instead of doing something. I hugged her, she was clearly shaken at the ordeal. She had been struggling for several minutes crying for help and no one did anything.

This seems to happen often now. No one comes to the rescue in an emergency for a variety of reasons. Perhaps they don’t want to get involved or they think someone else will. But sadly, it’s nothing new.

According to psychologists, the phenomenon is known as “bystander effect”, when the presence of others hinders an individual from intervening in an emergency situation.

It first came to public attention in 1964, when Kitty Genovese was stabbed and raped in the streets of Queens, New York. Reports at the time claimed that there were 38 neighbours who heard her screams and that none of them did anything, even when the killer returned to finish the job. A more recent investigation suggests that there were perhaps only “6 or 7 witnesses”. One of them “did not want to be involved” as he was drunk, and so telephoned a neighbour asking them to contact the police.

“Someone needs to break free of that social phenomena of the bystander apathy and stick out, be courageous.” Which I suppose is what happened when I broke the stunned silence of onlookers today.

I had reacted a bit slowly as I expected lifeguards to do their job, but once I realised what was happening I am glad I did something.

The reason that witnesses don’t respond is because of confusion, fear and uncertainty. Perhaps they are not sure if it is their responsibility. It’s easier not to act. If it’s safer not to that is understandable. But out of 20 witnesses of the serious assault in New Zealand, just 10% reacted and called police.

There was the shocking neglect at Stafford Hospital, which included patients being so desperate for water that they were drinking from vases. Everyone thought it was someone else’s duty to ensure basic needs were met.

What today taught me is that I am a lady of reaction rather than inaction. In an emergency the difference between these two responses can mean life and death, if not for you then for someone else.

People have died when they could have been saved. If we don’t act we all have blood on our hands. So don’t just look the other way and don’t just stand there. Be the person to make a difference.

A massive 2.7 million live with it here. It doesn’t just affect those who have diabetes, high blood pressure, who smoke or are overweight. It can be genetic or it can be caused by fatty deposits building up in our arteries as we get older. It could affect you at some point in your life.

I used to care for an elderly lady who had a pacemaker so the British Heart Foundation is an important cause for me. Thinking of her is what will drive me in my 40 mile charity bicycle ride on 27 October this year, which I will be doing with my group. Of course I practice what I preach and have given money and I will also donate my organs in the event of my death, so that someone else may live a life as full as the one I often take for granted.

Have a heart and please donate to our bike ride JustGiving page today. You can give in a variety of currencies through a secure process. It doesn’t have to be much but it would be much appreciated not just by me but by the people whose lives the research/treatment will save or improve.

In the break between posting I have accepted two jobs which I heard about through networking, constantly posting the woes of unemployment on Facebook. My Facebook friends probably offered me jobs they knew about just to free up their newsfeed! I currently work in the Blood Service. I was surprised at the amount of people calling in to book appointments.

Ironically I have a needle phobia, like a third of young people surveyed by the NHS Blood and Transplant Service and so I have not donated. I am looking for someone to go with me and hold my hand, as last time I had a blood test I nearly fainted. Phobias are strange, you know it’s irrational, and yet when you’re in that situation the object of fear seems magnified and the irrational thoughts seem all too real. Like arachnophobia, where the spider seems bigger in your mind’s eye and you imagine it crawling on you, when that is the last thing it would do.

A study is being conducted to see if people can give blood more regularly – perhaps a month sooner than they would normally be allowed to. This is already the case in some other countries and donors are monitored at each attendance. If I can face my fear and give blood maybe I will join it. You can ask about it and sign up until June if you attend a static centre as the study does not run from mobile vans and you must be 18 or over.